


this is letting go

by elliptical



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sgrub Session, Cuddling & Snuggling, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pale Prostitution, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-08 04:10:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7742821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elliptical/pseuds/elliptical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mutant pale hooker with secrets takes on a psionic client with secrets.</p><p>Things happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> me: wow i sure do have like seventeen fics to update  
> my brain: ok but rarepair pale hooker au  
> me: you're right
> 
>  
> 
> _this is the part where the needle skips_  
>  _and the chorus plays like a sink that drips_  
>  _a syllable repeating, like a warning we aren't heeding_  
>  -rise against, this is letting go

"You fucking idiot."

You're sitting on the edge of the platform your current client insists on sleeping on, because he claims that he can't use a recuperacoon like a normal troll, because he got used to sopor patches during his first deployment into space and now slime immersion feels unnatural. This is all well and good - you can't fathom why anyone would take an awkward prone and dry position over floating, but what the fuck ever - except that said client also apparently hasn't heard of switching out the patches when they get old.

No wonder he's paying you an exorbitant amount of money. He's clearly going to be the most high maintenance troll you've papped, which is saying something considering previous clientele included a blueblood who'd accidentally killed her kismesis and a subjuggulator cultist who you think _might_ have had a stash of bodies in his basement.

Your client, with some apparent effort, releases his vice grip on the blankets. There's singed holes where his palms touched them, which is why you haven't papped him yet. No use burning your own hands if he's running too hot.

"I'm..." He takes a deep breath. "I'm fine. I apologize."

"You _fucking idiot_ ," you repeat. "Where do you keep your sopor patches?"

He just blinks.

"Fresh sopor patches. Come on, fucklord. Work with me."

The troll is a yellowblooded psion who won't tell you his name or explain any of the mysterious circumstances behind his wealth. You've got a few theories of your own, but none of them matter. If the guy intended to be a threat to you, he would have moved before now, and he would have given you a better cover story than "I don't want to talk about it." Apparently secrets are the quickest way to earn your trust.

No one ever said you were rational, okay?

He finally points to the door beside one of several bookshelves in here. "Ablution block. Behind the mirror."

He woke you up from enjoying the cool embrace of a real recuperacoon (he has one in the apartment's guest block, it's not that he can't afford one, he literally just refuses) by screaming like he was being murdered. You sort of figured he must have pissed off one too many highbloods through whatever mysterious well-paying illegal work he does, so by the time you got dressed and entered his block, you'd prepared yourself for the worst. But he was alone and staring wild-eyed at the ceiling, screaming at nothing, because he had a day terror, because he used an expired sopor patch to sleep, because he's a _fucking idiot_.

By the time you return with a fresh sopor patch, snapping the band to activate it, he's sitting up and far more lucid. "I apologize," he says. "I didn't intend to wake you."

"Look, buddy." You take his arm and start to push his sleeve up. "As far as I'm concerned, you can keep me up all day as long as I don't have to walk into the sun. There's not much I won't do."

He draws back, and when you try to grab his sleeve again, pushes you away with a gentle nudge of psionics. "I can apply it myself."

"At this point I'm kind of doubting your ability to do that."

"I'm not comfortable undressing."

"I'm - you're literally not undressing, I'm _rolling up your sleeve._ "

"Karkat."

He has a strange accent, and nowhere is it more obvious than his pronunciation of your name. His tongue lengthens the vowels into their own syllables, rather than the two sharp clicks it's supposed to be, and now he says it like a warning.

"Okay," you say, dragging a hand down your face. "You're entitled to your hangups. Do you need anything else?"

"No. I really do apologize." He smiles, except his mouth twitches like it can't quite remember how the muscles work, and it's the saddest expression you've seen on his face yet. "I won't disturb your sleep again. Go rest."

"You can disturb my sleep if you need me."

He waves a hand, casual dismissal. "Go rest."

\---

"You need to give me something to call you."

Early evening and he's asked you to stay a few more hours, offered you coffee, and tossed you a wad of plain clothes surprisingly close to your size. ("This belonged to the last troll you murdered, right?" "Obviously. I should at least put my serial killing trophies to practical use.")

He tilts his head. He has this way of scrutinizing you like you've sprouted three heads and he's idly fascinated about the development. "You can't just continue with whatever disparaging nickname you've invented?"

"If this is going to be a long-term arrangement, I need something better to call you than Fuckhands Neuroses." You fold your arms. "Company policy."

Another long, long moment. Then he grins, and it's a hell of a lot more genuine than the forced smile yesterday. "Salmon."

"Wh - salmon."

"Call me Salmon."

"Who the fuck names a troll Salmon."

"It's not my hatch name. But it's something to call me."

"I am literally not going to call you Salmon."

"Then Fuckhands Neuroses it is."

"Oh my fucking god." You glare. It's the sort of glare that has made multiple highbloods settle right the fuck down without even being touched. "If you intend for us to pile, I'm sure as fuck not piling you all, 'Shh, it's all right, it's all right, let it out... Salmon.'"

He tips his head back and cackles.

"I'm serious!"

"Is Karkat really your name?"

"Yes."

The laughter dies off. "Huh," he says. "You shouldn't give up your hatch name so easily."

"Yeah, well. You could at least give me a title in exchange. Or make something up, I don't care." Then, as he opens his mouth, "No fish!"

He snorts. "Fine. Call me Gem."

"And what a dazzling diamond you are," you say, so deadpan that he cackles again. "Whatever. It's better than Salmon."

\---

You don't mention that you're pretty sure you know his last name, at least. Explaining how you know it would give away too much of who you are, and besides, trolls are entitled to their secrets. You weren't completely sure the signs matched, it's been sweeps since you spoke to Sollux - but Gem. Gemini. Most likely a Captor. It's uncommon for trolls to share a sign without a direct genetic link.

He's definitely too old to be Sollux, but they do look alike. The same bright, heterochromatic eyes. The same dual horns and overbite and too-skinny-to-be-healthy builds. You have to wonder if the guy knows he's got a genetic clone running around with the Empress, if he'd even care.

He gave you free leave to peruse his books, so you've been poking through them for most of the night. Whenever you try a standard method of pale seduction, he gets weirdly edgy. Part of you has no idea why the fuck he hired you, and part of you figures maybe you just have to approach him like a skittish meowbeast, all sidling and no direct contact.

"So where were you stationed?" you ask. Your nose is buried in the latest of a romance series that you stopped following ages ago. Now sure is a good time to get caught up!

He's on his husktop, leaning against the reclining platform. At the very least, his hackles don't go up immediately. "Hmm?"

"Your mysterious placement in a hellscape that apparently couldn't afford recuperacoons. I'm curious."

"Eh. Here and there."

"Okay, but where's 'here' and where's 'there'?"

"Mostly I've worked in the outer reaches of Quad Four. Solar Systems Z-985 and X-487 doing supply runs between their bases." He doesn't look up from his husktop, so you don't look up from your book.

"So you were a helmsman?"

"Mmm. Most psions are."

"Were," you correct.

"I think, statistically speaking, most still are."

"So you were granted a leave of absence during the Reformation? What do you do now?"

Finally he looks up, squinting at you. "You ask a lot of questions, Karkat."

"Okay, but take a second to think about how much you've given me from my perspective, and consider how many questions _you'd_ have."

"I don't feel the need to voice the thousand questions I have about you."

"Did you work with aliens?"

"What?"

"You have an accent. It - doesn't sound Alternian."

Gem laughs and returns his attention to his screen, shaking his head. "Fuck off. My accent's more Alternian than yours."

"Why do you have so much money?"

"I'm a very smart investor."

"Ughhh." You set the book aside, tired of the pretense. "Why did you hire me?"

"The same reason everyone hires you."

"No. Most people hire me because they have something on their minds that they need to get out, or they need to spend the day with someone else close, or they're miserable and want someone to make them less miserable, or they want someone to take care of them. You - basically just threw a pile of caegars at me to sleep in your apartment, _not even in the same block as you_ , and won't actually talk to me, which is _not really conducive to the pale thing._ "

"I..." He swallows, and after a few tense clicks and keyboard taps, closes his husktop. "I'm sorry. I - don't really know how to do this."

"Why did you hire me?"

"I could use the company."

"I'm pretty sure you can find people to keep you company if you socialize. Like, you don't actually have to waste your money like this."

"It's not..." A frustrated groan.

"Look, if it's - if our personalities don't mesh, that's okay, alright? My style of pale tends to be more aggressive than a lot of people are into. I can find someone else to help you with whatever it is you're sitting on."

"I don't want to make you do things you don't want to do."

It's a few seconds before you can process this, and a few more before you manage to tamp down on the urge to laugh. "You know if you crossed my boundaries, I'd tell you."

"There's - if you're doing this job to survive - it would be immoral of me to take advantage of you, to make you..."

"Holy fucking shit. There's so much wrong with that statement I don't even know where to start."

Gem falls silent.

"You hired me to do a job, right?"

He nods.

You scoot closer to him, take his face in your hands, as gently as you can manage. "Then let me _do my fucking job_. Holy shit."

"Mmm. Oh." His eyes close. He slumps. "Okay."

"Your boundaries are important," you say, brushing his hair back. "But if you're not letting me touch you because you have some asinine notion that I'm under duress, then - get over yourself. Honestly."

"Mmmkay."

"Also, if you intend for this to be a long-term arrangement, we need to draw up a contract."

He nudges his head into your palms. "Aha. Soothing me into paperwork agreements. I see how this works."

You smile and thunk your foreheads together, gentle as you can manage. "Absolutely."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> karkat's really good at his job until he isn't

Everything changed when Feferi Peixes took the throne.

The thing about the Alternian government is that the very vicious, very dead Condesce never structured her Empire to function without her. Goddess of the people holding her rightful place, communing with her horrorterror emissary lusus, recklessly conquesting and killing and conquesting some more. Whether she'd just never accepted the possibility of an Heiress winning her challenge, or she used no safeguards out of spite in the hopes that the Empire would collapse in her absence, the result was the same - Feferi's Ascension was an event the likes of which the galaxy hadn't seen in thousands of sweeps.

Her Imperious Reformation picked up her trident, sat down on a throne that had already started to smoke, and doused the whole fucking thing in gasoline.

Meanwhile, you had already vanished from any true record of existence with the help a stupid friend who cared about you more than he should have. Your own legacy could have secured you one of the most powerful positions in the new world, offered a front row seat to the bonfire. Your ancestor happened to lead a revolution. Feferi happened to be modeling her rule on a bizarre mashup of his and her morals. A cult of completely batshit trolls happened to think you were the reincarnation of their dead revolutionary leader, which was what kept your mutant ass from dying in the caverns to begin with.

Naturally, you ran the fuck away.

About a thousand bullshit rationalizations later and you have no real reasoning beyond cowardice, but hey. No one's missing anything. Your general incompetence would have scattered the ashes the government was trying to rebuild from, and at least the job you do now is one you're _good_ at. You can be Karkat the technically registered rustblood who paps people for a living, and Feferi can be the childhood friend who aspired to surprising greatness, and no one need know your paths ever might have crossed more than that.

Gem, you're fairly sure, is one of the trolls displaced by the Reformation. It's rare to find anyone whose life wasn't directly affected in some way by Fef's rule. Helmsmen rescued from their ships and offered contracts for their services instead. Lowbloods suddenly eligible for promotions that had never been available to them. Salaries that would allow people to make a living. The complete scrapping of certain conquests and withdrawal from wars to stabilize already-secure pieces of the Empire. The outlawing of blood hunting. The prosecution of Condescension-loyalist highbloods. A new era of freedom and chaos and collapse and complication.

You still don't know where the fuck his money came from. He's sitting on old highblood wealth the likes of which you don't think you'd see in anything sub-purple. The economy may be shaking itself out more fairly, but not _that_ fairly. Spoils of war, you guess, but who he fought to gain this much money - probably best not to dwell on it. He spends enough of it to maintain a quiet apartment on a quiet colony full of quiet people, and to contract you by the week, and to buy books. As far as you can tell, that's the extent of his lavish living.

Whatever. Far be it from you to complain about being paid to lay around in a guy's apartment, eat his food, and call him an idiot.

\---

Okay, well, the third time Gem wakes you up screaming, you complain a little. Just a little.

"I'm sleeping in here from now on," you say once you've settled him back down, one hand carding idly through his hair. He tenses up, so you add, "You'll keep your clothes on. I'll keep my clothes on. I will learn to deal with pretending a reclining platform is a 'coon. Obviously you need someone to help you rest."

"You'll be more comfortable in slime."

"I'll sleep better when you stop waking me up," you point out, and wince when he flinches.

"Hey, no, look at me." You cup his cheek, running your thumb over his bottom lip. "You're worrying too much about me being comfortable. I'm trying to make you comfortable, god dammit. You're a mess and really fucking stubborn about letting me help. It's driving me nuts."

He bites his bottom lip, his cheeks tinting dark yellow. Then slowly, ever so slowly, he raises his hand and touches your face. "I want you to be comfortable."

You suddenly understand everything.

"Oh my god," you say. "You didn't hire me to take care of you."

He swallows. "Not exactly."

"Oh my god."

Gem lets his hand fall, rolling over. "So you should sleep where you're most comfortable. I'll be fine."

" _That's_ what this is? That's why you're paying me so much to do absolutely nothing? You're trying to - to - to take care of me?"

"Someone should look out for you."

"I'm not a mess!"

"You are a walking disaster."

"Said the psion singeing holes in his platform because of day terrors!"

"Said the borderline hiveless mutant who glances over his shoulder every five seconds like the Empress is standing there."

You take a sharp breath. "What?"

"I - I'm sorry. I meant the Condesce. I forget. Frequently."

"My blood is none of your fucking business."

"Oh. Another apology, then. Your eyes are bright enough, I thought - I didn't realize it bothers you. I won't bring it up again."

"So this whole time I've had it backwards, you - you've been playing your fantasy of rescuing the destitute mutant, what a tragedy, a shell of his former self, and you know it's even more taboo to pap someone off spectrum than to need papping as a lowblood, you know, let's play up the asinine kinks so you can feel better about yourself -"

"No!" he shouts.

It's the first time you've heard him raise his voice. He sits up properly and stares at the wall, agitated flickers of red and blue running along his horns. His jaw clenches. Shit.

You just yelled at a client. This is why you have to be your own boss, god damn. If you worked for a company instead of independently you'd be _so_ fucking fired right now. You still might be fucking fired, and all because for some reason you were surprised there was an ulterior motive to the best contract you've had in... ever. You've known from the start there has to be a catch, why are you such a neurotic _idiot_? It's not like his endgame involved murder.

Gem breathes out slowly through his nose, and when he speaks again it's more measured. "I didn't realize I was being inappropriate. I should have been clearer about my intentions. I didn't know that you don't - I thought - I'm sorry."

"No, I - fuck. I'm the one who should be sorry, I shouldn't have been so accusatory. I have issues."

"Maybe a few." He lays back down, closing his eyes. "Will you bite my hand off if I ask if you want to talk about them?"

"First time you let me at a proper feelings jam and you're not even the one doing the jamming. I can't believe this."

"Is that a yes?"

"Only if you tell me why you apparently pity me first."

"Mmm. There are a lot of reasons. Some that I would rather not voice right now, if that's all right. I'll tell you at some point later, I'm just - not ready right now."

"Okay, but there are reasons you can voice now?"

"You seem afraid," he says, and you try not to bristle. "There - you tensed. I don't know how you survived all these sweeps with your blood color. You were hatched before the Reformation, weren't you? I imagine the fear that comes with hiding a mutation doesn't dissipate easily, even once being a mutant is no longer illegal."

"And that makes me pitiful."

"I wanted to help, I'm - I really am sorry. I didn't know you don't do things this way. The last thing I wanted to do was upset you."

"That wasn't your fault. That was just me being really bad at my job." You settle down, laying your head on his chest, listening to the rapid pulsing flutter of his heartbeat. "I shouldn't have flipped out over you wanting to help me. I was just startled."

"You've really never had anyone who wanted to pap you?"

"I try not to advertise myself as a mess. And most of my clients are highbloods."

He rests a hand on your hair. "I'm sorry I made you feel unsafe."

"You didn't make me feel unsafe."

"Uh huh."

"...I have issues," you concede. "I may tell you about them later, but it's the middle of the afternoon. We're both sleeping. Even if you didn't hire me for your sake, you are at least as big a mess as I am, and I'll fucking fight you. Let me stay in here today, you'll sleep better."

He grunts. "I probably will," he admits after a few moments. "Sleep well, Karkat."

"Good morning, Gem."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gem is really bad at dealing with literally everything

"I really wanted to be a Threshecutioner when I was younger."

Gem laughs. "Of all the shitty professions."

"Hey, don't knock the threshies! At least they're less terrifying than laughsassins."

"I suppose that's one positive." He frowns down at the frying pan before him, prodding at the fish inside with a spatula. "I think I'm burning this."

"You aren't supposed to keep poking at it. Meat won't cook right if you keep moving it around."

He prods again. "Are you sure?"

"Yes! Look, I may not be a culinary genius, but I've at least watched enough Troll Food Network to _theoretically_ know how to cook meat. You, on the other hand - have you ever actually done anything in the nutrition block besides irradiate canned goods?"

"Theoretically, I'm not going to let a hunk of dead fish get the better of me."

"Scoot over."

"I am trying to make you a meal."

"And I appreciate the sentiment, and you are adorable," you say, "and you are also abysmal at this. Let me do it."

He grunts and hands you the spatula.

You shoo him to the table and leave the fish to cook, rooting through his cupboards to see what other food he has. Most of his groceries were picked out by you, since he's just as terrible at healthy eating as Sollux, and doesn't even have the excuse of being a poor lowblood. Must be genetic or something.

The nutrition block is small, but it's also all warm light and stainless appliances. A tidy industrial spot in a tidy apartment - more features Gem seems intent on ignoring. Why bother using your habitat to its fullest ability when you could just order pizza? Tonight is the first time you've seen him turn the damn oven on.

"So why the threshies?" Gem asks.

You pull a bag of frozen vegetables out of the thermal hull and put a pot of water on to boil beside the fish. "Alternia's finest. I was super pumped to be on the front line of alien slaughtering elitists."

"Okay, so what's the real reason?"

"Thresh Prince was my favorite show growing up."

He laughs again. He has a nice laugh, one you've come to appreciate for how rare it is. Now that he's loosened up around you, he's more likely to let his guard down, offer real smiles. You figure that means you're doing your job right, damn all his hangups about being cared for.

"I liked Thresh Prince too," he says. "I mean, it wasn't really an accurate view of the army, but that's why I liked it. I downloaded all the seasons to watch on my neurals."

"Helmsmen can do that? Watch TV and movies and stuff? Read books?"

"Depends on the permissions, usually, but yes. The vast majority of captains don't mind so long as they still do their damn jobs. Engines last longer if you let them pretend they're still trolls."

You catch the edge in his voice and back off, chewing on the inside of your cheek. It's still easiest to approach painful topics from the sidelines with him, so you return your attention to the frying pan as you speak. "I'm sorry if that was offensive. I didn't mean to imply you aren't a troll - I just don't know a lot about the practice."

"You're welcome to ask about it. I just doubt I'll have answers you like for a lot of your questions."

"Well, if you'd liked helming then you'd still be a helmsman," you reason. "So I sort of figured you had a negative experience."

"It wasn't... that I didn't enjoy helming. I mean. Circumstantially that's fucked up. I _shouldn't_ have enjoyed it."

"I don't think you need to justify liking something that psions are conditioned to want pretty much since they're hatched." You pause, wondering if that's going too far, but he doesn't seem any tenser than usual. "Why did you give up helming if you liked it?"

He stares down at the table for a long time, long enough that you think he's not going to answer at all. Then he runs a hand through his hair and says, "It would have disappointed my moirail if I'd stayed."

Aha. You sense a story here, but dragging details out of Gem is like pulling fangs. Tamping down on the curious side of you that wants to demand an explanation, you go with a gentler approach instead. Better to coax out the parts that will help you understand him than to dig for names, faces, places.

"You have a moirail?"

"He died."

"I'm sorry," you say, though it's no more than you were expecting. "How long ago?"

"Long enough that it shouldn't still pain me. Before the Reformation." He's focused so intently on the table that he might burn a hole in the wood. "I have never been good at coping with loss."

"You lost your soul mate. I don't think that ever stops hurting." You turn the stove off when you ascertain that the fish is done cooking, breathing out slowly. "The pain gets easier to bear with time, but only if you let yourself face it."

"Have you ever had a moirail? A real one, not - this."

"My quadrants are pretty much exclusively a mess." You're bored with waiting for the vegetables to cook, so you just put two crappy plates of food together and move to the table, settling across from him. "I've never been good at keeping things contained within one box, or keeping one person in that box. I end up a little pale for pretty much everyone I talk to, whether it's a good idea or not. That's why this job is ideal for me. I can put pale sluttiness to good use."

The corner of his mouth twitches upward. "That's fair."

"Tell me about your moirail."

"There's not much to say. He didn't like helmsman practices, his hands were soft, he was a foolhardy idiot and he paid for it. He's dead. It doesn't matter."

"I'm pretty sure there's more to say than that," you say, "but you don't have to talk about it right now if you don't want to."

"I'm sorry." He frowns down at his plate. "Have I spoiled the mood?"

"Nah. Not even remotely. I'm just one step closer to solving the mystery of Gem Mysterious-Identity No-Last-Name." You pop a forkful of fish into your mouth. "Your moirail - did you inherit your assets from him?"

"Not exactly."

He doesn't offer you more than that, and you're not sure what else you can ask without risking a shutdown. You just focus on your food and eat in silence, and you're almost finished when he speaks again.

"I killed the woman who killed him," he says, soft, like he's rehearsed it a thousand times, "and _then_ I inherited my assets."

"Oh." You consider this for a moment. "Huh. That's not nearly as bad as any of the scenarios I was imagining."

"It doesn't frighten you?"

"Pretty much every troll I've ever met has killed for some reason or another. Some even before Ascension, you would not believe the clusterfuck of revenge cycles my friends - that's not even the point. The point is, avenging your moirail is a pretty decent justification for murder."

"There are a lot of decent justifications for murder."

"And not-so-decent ones, I'm sure."

"Have you ever killed, Karkat?"

You swallow. "Um."

"I'm sorry. That was too personal."

"No, it's - no. Fuck. I haven't. Even in situations where maybe I should have, I've never been able to bring myself to - I'm not hardwired for violence, which I guess is another way of saying I'm weak as fuck. I can't stand the thought of taking someone's life. It makes me nauseous. There have been a few times I've incapacitated trolls to get away, or I've - let people around me do the dirty work for me. It's not even some great moral standing keeping me from doing it, I'm just a coward."

"Bravery is overrated. I have great respect for trolls who save their own skins. Martyrdom and honorable death mean nothing in the end. You can't gloat about them because you're too busy being dead." He's stopped avoiding eye contact - instead he's staring at you with an intensity that almost hurts, like he's trying to peel you back layer by layer and see what lays underneath. "Fuck the Empire."

"Fuck the Empire," you agree.

Now that both of your plates are empty, you scoop them up and bring them over to the sink to rinse them out. Simple things like cleaning and doing dishes tend to soothe you, and you're nervous enough to need that. You don't talk about your past with clients. At best, you make up stories that they'd like to hear, you don't -

"Karkat," Gem says from behind you. You nearly jump out of your skin. You hadn't heard him coming.

"Yeah?"

"You aren't weak for not being inclined to slaughter."

"Did you hire me because of your moirail?" you ask.

It's not what you intend to say. You're not sure what you intended to say, but you're pretty sure it wasn't that. God damn.

"What?"

"You couldn't save him so you're trying to save me instead. Is that what this is? I'm a mutant and you'll feel better if you rescue cullbait?"

"That is... probably a bigger part of it than I'd like to acknowledge."

You turn to him, trying not to bristle, and he continues, "There are other factors too, though. I'm aware that you're more than capable of taking care of yourself. I have no illusions that you can't. I just - I have been so fucking lonely since he died." His breath leaves him in a rush. "You don't know how lonely I've been."

You raise your hand to his cheek, chest aching a little as he nuzzles your palm. "This is a bad way of coping, Gem."

"I know."

"Did killing his murderer make you feel better?"

"For about five minutes, yes." He lays his hand over yours, pressing it harder against his cheek. "Then it just made me tired."

"This will do the same. Caring for me won't bring him back. It'll just make you tired."

"I've been tired my whole life."

"Gem."

"I know this is only a job for you. I understand that, I promise. And when the time comes that you don't want to renew your contract, I'll let you go without a word. I don't intend to make you do things you don't want to do. But until that time comes - let me have this. Please. Let me have this."

You sigh and let your hand drop. Then you curl your arms around him, hugging him close, reaching up so you can stroke his hair. "You are an utter disaster," you say. "A thousand problems stacked under a trench coat."

His breath hitches, and then he starts to laugh, only the crumbling edge of sound to tell you how badly he wants to cry.

You let him have this.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> confessions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _the wind died, the whole world ceased to move_   
>  _now so quiet her beating heart became a boom_   
>  _we locked eyes for just a moment or two_   
>  _she asked why_   
>  _i said, i don't know why, i just know_   
>  _-rise against, this is letting go_

Four perigrees into your arrangement - fifteen renewed contracts, sixteen sizable deposits in your credit account - Gem looks at you like you've grown a second head and says, "You're still here."

You tilt your head. "Was I supposed to go somewhere? Fuck. I don't remember making any appointments and I went grocery shopping yesterday."

"No, you're still _here_. Working for me."

"Well. Yeah."

"Why?"

"You realize that if you don't want me here anymore, you don't have to renew the contract, right? It's up to you as much as it is to me."

"That's not it. I... assumed that once you'd accrued a certain amount of money or gotten bored, you would have chosen to leave. Why haven't you?"

You sit down on the couch, kicking your feet up. "Dude. I don't have to pay for rent or food here, you're easy to cohabitate with, and I care about you. At the moment I don't see any reason to go."

Which isn't a lie. The money is one hell of a motivator - you've been saving up for the most part, but you also have enough to splurge for a new husktop and hardcover copies of some of your favorite romance novels, which you've stuffed among the books on his shelves.

"Ah." He settles next to you, and you wait for him to go on, but he just stares aimlessly into space.

"Plus," you add, "it's... really easy for me to be pale for people. I told you about the whole quadrant smearing, non-monogamous thing. This job isn't about pretending to be pale for people so they can get their rocks off. Not for me, anyway. Other people do it that way, and that's fine, but the reason I'm good at this is because I'm cursed with the unfortunate compulsion to give a shit about every sad troll I meet whether they deserve it or not. It's not like I think I've found my one true soulmate in you or whatever, because I've discovered the one true soulmate concept doesn't _work_ for me, but I do have pale feelings for you. So. There's no reason for me to leave."

"Ah. I see."

You snuggle up under his arm, a habit you've picked up because he tends to respond better to physical comfort than verbal when he's drifting like this. His hand comes up, idly carding through your hair, and then he sighs.

You think he's going to talk, and when he doesn't you start rambling again. "I figured by now you would have gotten the moirail grief thing out of your system and sent me packing. But that hasn't happened yet, has it? You're shitty at coping and you want me to care about you, so here I am."

His throat clicks. You don't usually bring up the dead moirail thing head-on, if you approach it at all. He's still skittish. Won't let himself feel the pain long enough to even talk about it, which is why he's not coping, which is idiotic, and you're still trying to figure out how to untangle the mess.

"I am despicable," he says.

You blink. Immediate rejection of the statement will just send him on an insistent self-loathing spiral, so instead you pull back and squint up at him. "Since when?"

"I am a liar and a cheat and I can't stop without ruining this." His brows draw together, but his voice is detached, like he's merely talking about the weather. "And I am going to hurt you very badly if we keep up this... thing. You should... at the end of the week, once your paid time is up, you should leave. Do you have a place to go? I'll pay hotel fees if you need them while you look for an apartment, I don't know if you..."

"Gem."

He stops, goes back to staring at the wall, staunchly refusing your attempts at eye contact.

"Hey," you say. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No." He laughs, edged with something hard and bitter. "I've done everything wrong."

"Okay. Let's talk about it."

"Karkat."

"I've still got a week of paid time here, which means I've got a week left to be pale for you, which means asking for feelings jams about your fuckups is not out of bounds."

His attempt at a smile crumbles. He shakes his head. "I have been very, very far from honest with you, and the more time that goes by the harder it is, and I keep hoping that you'll leave before any kind of confession comes up, but that doesn't seem to be happening. I can't think of any way to tell you that won't frighten you or hurt you, and it would be worse if you found out by accident, and I have no excuses. I didn't go into this intending to hurt you, but I did enter with entirely selfish motivations, and I..." His voice cracks. "I'm sorry, Karkat."

"Gem." You reach up and very, very gently touch his cheek, glad at least that he doesn't pull away. "I'm ninety-nine percent sure at least one of my previous clients was a _literal serial killer_. Whatever it is that you've done, the 'absurdly pale for everything that moves' thing still applies with me."

"No. Not with this. It's not some arbitrary bad deed I committed, though fuck knows I have millions of those. It's a personal betrayal of trust."

Your heart thuds unevenly, but you just tuck a lock of hair behind his ear. "Okay, well, now you have to tell me."

"I don't know where to begin."

"Is that because we're talking, like, a really complex betrayal of trust with a lot of weird reasoning? Or because there's been more than one trust betrayal?"

"Both."

"Okay. Uh." You tuck your feet up under you, grab a blanket from the back of the couch and drape it over both of your shoulders. "Tell me whatever I'll think is the worst thing first. Then everything that comes after won't suck as much."

"I... fuck. Fuck. I."

"Gem."

"I knew who you were before I hired you," he says finally. "You weren't just a random picture I picked out of a magazine spread or something, you... I knew you were the Second Sufferer."

The thudding of your heart speeds up, a riot against your ribs, a keening buzz in your ears. Yeah. Yeah, okay, that's pretty bad. That's pretty bad.

"You're a Sufferist?" you say, and you're not even sure what your voice sounds like because it's hard to hear above the ringing.

"No. No, no no no. Fuck no. It's more complicated than that."

"You knew I was the Second Sufferer even though I never claimed that title, uh. Shit. Did you - are you - was it like, a trophy thing or - hang on, I'm a little dizzy."

"I'm not a Sufferist, I _swear_ to you I'm not a Sufferist." His breathing is harsh, and he pulls his corner of blanket tighter around himself. "Sufferists are - they're not - they're more likely to base their beliefs in preparing for an apocalypse and reciting the tortured words of a dying man. They don't want peace the way the Signless envisioned it, not until the world is cleansed first, not until they get to fulfill their prophecies. No. I'm not a fucking Sufferist."

"Then what are you?"

"My name is Mituna Captor," he says, and through the haze you think _Captor, I was right_ , and that calms you enough to listen closely, because at least it's a sign he's telling the truth. "I am really, really fucking old, and your first instinct is going to be to think that I'm delusional, but I have the documentation to prove it. I knew the Signless in his first life - my first life. We were close. When his revolution failed, he was killed and I - I was helmed against my will. I piloted the Battleship Condescension. The Empress kept me alive with the life force she'd stolen from other beings so that my lifespan would match hers. When Her Imperious Reformation took the throne, she freed me, and I left."

"That..." You root through the information, trying to paste it over the snippets he's told you about his past like you're puzzling through a collage. "That makes no fucking sense."

"I'm the Psiioniic."

"Bullshit."

"It doesn't matter whether you believe me or not. I can prove it to you later. Karkat - fuck. The Signless was my moirail. It was wrong of me to pretend you were him, and it was wrong of me not to be honest with you, but I - that's what I was hiding. I'm not a Sufferist. I never have been. And I didn't mean to use you, not the way it seems, anyway. I just thought..." His eyes close. "I thought maybe if I cared for you, I could make up for how badly I ruined things the first time."

You swallow, and then you unwrap yourself from the blanket, standing up. "Okay. Uh. You're right that this is kind of... a lot."

"I'm so, so sorry."

"I. Fuck. I need to think."

"Okay."

"I don't think I can think in here, I'm gonna end up pitying you and that's gonna cloud my judgment like it always does. Uh. Fuck." You rub your temples. "I'm gonna go out for a little while, okay? I need to go think. Then I'll come back and we can talk. Fuck, uh. Is that okay?"

"Of course." He makes no move to pull you back, just tucking himself tighter against the couch. "Be safe, Karkat, I - be safe. Please."

"I will."

You're struck by the urge to run your fingers through his hair, kiss his forehead, reassure him that you aren't angry. But you're not angry because he was right that you'd be upset, and there's too much going through your head to tell what the fuck you're feeling, and you don't want to give him false hope. Not if he's finally being truthful with you. Not if he's who he says he is.

You back out of the apartment, shut the door behind you, and manage to get all the way into the elevator before you start hyperventilating.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a resolution

You return to the apartment when the sun is just starting to streak across the sky, after eating your body weight in baked goods and chugging two full mugs of hot chocolate. The nice thing about Psii's apartment is that it's in the calmest section of the colony and most of the businesses are lowblood-run. It wouldn't surprise you if he picked the place way more based on location than on the damn scenery.

Psii isn't in the living room or the nutrition block. You poke your head into his block and find him buried under a mound of blankets and what looks suspiciously like pillowcases - apparently he dragged everything out of the linen closet so he could hide in something soft. You're struck by a stab of gentle fondness.

"Hey," you say. "I'm back. Are you awake?"

He rolls over and blinks at you. "I wasn't sure you were coming."

"I told you I would."

"I know, I just..." His eyes close. You can hear the unspoken end of the sentence, hanging in the air. _I wouldn't be surprised if you didn't._

"I told you that we're gonna talk, so let's talk."

He actually has to struggle to disentangle himself from the blanket tangle, finally managing to unearth his arms and sit up. "All right."

"Can I come over there?"

God, he's moving so cautiously. He hesitates, like he's not sure it would be responsible to accept, and then seems to decide you wouldn't ask if you didn't want to. "Okay."

The mattress is warm from his body heat. It's like sliding your legs into an electric blanket. You settle comfortably against the pillows piled at the headboard and lean against him, taking his hand in yours, mapping the scars that mottle his skin.

"You hired me under false pretenses," you say, running a finger over the web of skin between his pointer finger and thumb. "Or at least, only half true pretenses. There are things I wish you'd come clean about from the beginning, but I understand why you didn't."

He gives a tight nod.

"I don't think I can comfortably continue a working relationship with you, given the foundation it was built on." You look up from his hand and fix your gaze on his face instead, figuring you at least owe him eye contact, but he won't look at you. "So I'm firing you as my client."

His breath leaves him in a rush, his shoulders slumping. Try as he might, he can't quite keep his face from crumpling. But he nods again, his throat clicking as he swallows, and pats your hand with all the gentleness in the world. "I understand," he says, and you know he's spent the whole evening preparing for this, but his voice is still terribly strained. He's trying so hard to keep it under control, keep the hurt out, keep you from feeling guilty or pitying, because he cares _so much_ about how you feel. "I will - I can help you pack and pay your travel fees if you'd like. But if you would rather leave on your own, I understand. I won't continue contact if you prefer a clean break."

You curl your hand tighter around his. You needed to see how he'd react to an official breakup, make sure his earlier carefulness wasn't a crafted facade to make you stay. He has nothing to gain now, and he's still trying to spare your feelings, to keep you as shielded and safe as possible. He has no reason to show you kindness but he still is, even as the pain turns his breathing ragged.

"I wasn't finished," you say.

"Karkat, I..." His mouth is a tight, unhappy line as he pulls his hand away. "I understand you're trying to let me down as easily as possible. It's kind of you. But. Please."

"I can't have a working relationship built on false pretenses," you say, and you want so badly to brush his cheek with your hand, but you force yourself still. "However, I - I do have very, very pale feelings for you. And I would be interested in pursuing a personal relationship with you, as long as we were able to start it with very clear expectations and openness."

Psii's silent for a long time. His jaw works, his breathing steadying in and out of his nose, his eyes narrowed. Eventually, when he's dissected the statement enough times over that he can't help understanding its intent, he says, "You're _asking me out?_ "

"Well. Not necessarily out on a date. Just asking you to be my palemate."

He stares at you.

"It would be basically the same thing we're doing now, except that money wouldn't change hands and I wouldn't be your employee. Which I think might actually make you feel more comfortable? If I remember right, you had issues with the employee thing. Worrying about me being able to say no. Trust me, I'm very good at both saying no to people and telling them to go fuck themselves when I'm dating them."

"I don't... understand."

"That - that thing I just did was manipulative. I'm sorry. I needed to..." You blow a strand of hair out of your face and sink deeper against the pillows. "I needed to make sure you really were willing to let me go. I knew it would hurt you if I did. I needed to make sure you'd prioritize my needs over your desires. That's how you can tell the difference between a troll you can have a healthy relationship with and one you can't. If they'll accept a breakup because it's better for you, they give a shit about you personally, not just what you can do for them."

"Ah. Karkat." He leans back as well and lifts a hand like he wants to touch you, then hesitates and lets it drop. "You seem to be under the mistaken impression that I'm a good person."

"I don't give a shit whether you're a good person or not. Goodness is arbitrary. What matters to me is that you care for me."

"You have pitifully low standards."

"And you're an ass." You tuck your head against his shoulder. "I don't give a fuck how much you hate yourself or how awful you think you are. I can forgive you for lying to me on the condition that we take today to talk to each other. Tell the truth. Establish boundaries. Figure out what we want. All that good stuff."

"But if I'm not paying you, I..." You can't see his face from where you're nuzzling him, but you suspect he's got that pitiful little frown on his face again. "I can't offer you anything. I didn't mean to make you feel like you needed to stay. I swear to you, I'll be fine on my own. I'll be safe."

Fuck almighty, you pity him so much it's hard to breathe. You wrap your arms around him and speak slowly, willing yourself not to mangle the words. "I think you were the Helmsman so long that you've forgotten people can love you for more than your usefulness. I think you've hated yourself for so long that you don't know how to cope with being loved. And I think you deserve more than misery. And I want to give you that, if I can."

He swallows hard a few times, struggling to hold onto his composure, and then he whimpers, and then he buries his face in your hair and starts to cry.

\---

You hold him for the better part of three hours, coaxing out the shakes and the sobs, rising only to grab a box of tissues. Every so often, he'll start to calm down only for another gentle affirmation of his worthiness to set him off again. He's been holding it all in for such a long time, trying to keep himself from burdening you - all this pain, fighting and then helming and then struggling on his own, all these hardships. He doesn't know how to ask for what he needs. He doesn't know how to work out what comforts he's allowed or what interactions are okay. He couldn't even let you help when it was your _job_ because he was so convinced seeking comfort was selfish.

Eventually he hiccups and stills, wiping his eyes. "Okay. I think I'm done. Fuck, I have a headache."

"Keep blowing your nose."

He does, tossing the tissue into the growing mound beside the bed.

"I'm sorry," he says. "Fuck."

"No. You are not apologizing for having feelings."

"I didn't mean to-"

You press a finger to his lips, cutting him off before he can finish the thought. "You are not apologizing for having feelings, or for crying, or for wanting me to hold you, or for seeking any iota of comfort. Not again. No more. Okay?"

For a second you think he's not done at all and you're going to set off a new round, but then he nods. You remove your finger, and he bites the inside of his cheek and asks, "Are you... okay?"

You're reasonably sure that's his way of asking _have I been selfish and manipulated you and overstayed my welcome and made you feel awful and ruined your night_ without actually asking. You draw his hand to your cheek and smile.

"I'm good," you say. "I'm really good."

He bites his cheek again, wary when he speaks. "How can you be good? I just snotted on you for hours."

"I feel better when you let me take care of you than when you suffer alone."

"Fuck. I - fuck. How are you real."

"I'm often mystified by myself." You wrap your arms around him again. "So. Can we do pale? I swear I'll say no when I don't want things. And be a huge hardass. And yell at you if you're being a dick. And also you wouldn't be manipulating me and if I wasn't up for emotional comfort for some reason I'd just tell you instead of making you jump through hoops trying to figure it out."

He nods. "I - yes. I think we can... yes. I promise not to lie to you anymore."

"Okay. Thank you."

"While we're implementing this new honesty policy - I don't know how many of my feelings for you are genuine and how many are because I miss your ancestor."

"They can't be both?"

"You said it yourself. It's a bad way of coping."

"Look, okay. If you start asking me to roleplay my ancestor in the pile, we're gonna have an issue. But I don't think it's... I think you deserve to have someone help you through your grief. I think you understand he's gone. You just want comfort."

"From a man who looks exactly like him."

"If you work out the grief and figure out you don't have real feelings for me, that's okay. I figure you didn't at the beginning. You wanted someone you could pretend was him and then that spiraled out of control when you liked me." You tuck your head under his chin. "I'm not him."

"Ah." His breath shudders out, but he manages to regain control rather than crying. "I'm very fond of you, Karkat."

"I'm also very fond of you. And. On the open honesty thing."

"Hmm?"

"I want to keep my job."

Psii pauses. "Take on new clients?"

"Are you monogamous?"

"Kid. I piled your ancestor."

You huff a laugh, kissing his collarbone. "So you don't mind if I do?"

"Won't it exhaust you? Comforting people for work and then coming home to..."

"Nah. I like my job 'cause I'm an infinite wellspring of pity. I never get tired of making people feel better."

"If it makes you happy, it makes me happy." He kisses the tip of one of your horns. "May I make a request, though?"

"What is it?"

"Could you... maybe not pile any more serial killers? Or murderers in general? Is that a fair concession?"

You'd think he's joking if not for the earnest waver in his voice. You prop yourself up and squint at him. "Yes, you are allowed to ask me not to pile people who want to kill me. That is a fair boundary to set."

"Oh. Okay. Good. I just want you to be safe."

You settle back down with an exasperated sigh. "You're really, really bad at this 'voicing your concerns' thing."

"But I'm also very fond of you."

A small smile tugs at the corners of your lips. "I know. We'll make it work."


End file.
